INFINITY
by Steven G. Barnes

This is an original story, based on and in the world of the FOX
Television Network's _The X-Files_. This is a work of fiction, and it
should not be assumed that the locations, situations, or events portrayed
herein are factual. Although, one can never really be sure anymore . . .

* * *

The afternoon of Saturday, April 22th, 1995, is indelibly marked in the
minds of those who were witness to the Genesis. They did not actively or
willingly participate, but they were helpless to stop what occurred.
None of them actually knows precisely what happened -- they only know the
nightmares don't ever seem to go away. That afternoon marked the end of
sanity for a dozen or so patrons of the Grand Rapids Mall in Grand
Rapids, Michigan. It also marked the beginning of the Change in Paul
Forrester.
Paul was a striking man, middle twenties, jet-black hair and almost-
black pupils, rather shark-like. He had an intense but quiet look about
him,
one that seemed to be observing everything at all times. And within that
quiet exterior, a talent lay in his mind, one which served him well in his
profession -- psychic and prognosticator.
He had discovered this ability at the age of thirteen, just when
the puberty roller coaster was gathering speed. At first, it was mild
deja vu -- amazingly realistic dreams which came true with uncanny
accuracy. Then about six months later, the waking premonitions -- the
first was when he saw his sister hit by a car while riding her bike,
although he was in school, and she was at home -- four miles away. He
just knew, that was all.
The abilities grew in strength until he was sixteen. Then, the
growth just tapered off. He tried to exercise his mind, to flex that
particular area to make it grow stronger, but to no avail. He was as
strong as he was going to get.
Strong enough, anyway, to gain acclaim in the psychic world as
one of the best in the business. He could sometimes glean emotions and
situations from people just by looking at them, but if he touched them --
POW, there it all was. Their whole lives, spelled out as if he had lived
them himself. He still had the dreams, but not as much as previously.
He attended a psychic fair when he was seventeen years old, and right
from the start, he was home.
April 22 was another fair day, this time in his home city of
Grand Rapids. Fame and fortune-telling took their tolls on a body, and
he sometimes loathed traveling in airplanes -- he got a sense of psychic
claustraphobia, and usually felt like he was drowning in others' minds.
Usually, he drove himself. That was so much better.
That day, though, he only had to cross town, and the fair
included many other psychics from around the country. Paul had sat at
his station for four hours, reading minds, reading palms, reading the
future -- he was getting tired. So, around 4:30 that day, he put up the
small sign on his table which read "I'm here in spirit", and left to go
downstairs for a break. There were several hundred people in the mall,
and he intended to get a Coke and a slice of pizza in the food court,
then take his break outside -- in his car, away from the others.
He wrangled his way through the masses, trying not to think about
all the minds around him, trying to shield that part of himself, and was
descending the stairs when it happened -- an act of senseless violence.
A black teenager with a do-rag had pulled out a very large handgun, and
fired it at a rival gang member, killing him instantly. It all happened
less than forty feet from where Paul Forrester was making his way down to
the food court. Panic and shock blasted through the crowd as people went
screaming and running in all directions. Many dropped to the floor, but
on the staircase, everyone felt like sitting ducks, so they shoved their
way up or down. He was caught near the front of the blockage, and as a
burly man behind him shoved roughly, Paul's feet failed him. He flew
headlong down the stairs at an angle, and his momentum carried his skull
directly into the large metal cap at the foot of the handrail. There was
a crack as his skull fractured above his right eye, but no one heard it.
At exactly that moment, every plate-glass window in a
two-hundred-foot radius blew in, and a blinding flash of white light
emanated from Paul's injured head, though it was so bright, no one could
have located the source even without panic. Several heart-risk
candidates suffered temporary palpitations, and one woman who had been
near-deaf was suddenly healed. People fled from the food court as fast
as they could, abandoning the body of the man at the foot of the stairs,
who was quietly bleeding from his forehead. It would be twenty minutes
before the ambulance arrived for the dead gang member, and by then, Paul
had unconsciously repaired most of the damage in his brain. When the
paramedics finally got to him, he was only mildly concussed. No one --
not even Paul -- was aware that he had ever been any worse off.

* * *

"Gives new meaning to the phrase, 'Shop till you drop', doesn't
it, Scully?" Fox Mulder glanced over at his partner, then returned his
gaze to the stretch of highway ahead of them. He was driving the rented
car the had gotten back in Detroit, cruising along at the breakneck speed
of fifty-seven miles an hour.
Dana Scully looked up from the file she was still studying long
enough to give him a wry smile -- his wisecracks usually made dangerous
and mentally strenuous assignments more bearable, even if they were
sometimes tactless. Nonetheless, she enjoyed his company, and was
gradually learning to respond in kind.
"Actually," she said as blandly as possible, "I'm not surprised.
The mall WAS offering a giant blow-out."
Mulder cracked a smile, and it actually became a grin. Scully
turned back to the file on her lap, satisfied that she had broken through
that serious face. What had Mr. Nutt called it? Oh, yes -- his "dour
demeanor". The humor faded as she focussed again on the case.
Bizarre seemed to sum it up best. Seconds _after_ a shot was
fired, all the panes of glass shattered. Scully had to admit she
couldn't explain this yet. But, just because she couldn't now, didn't
mean she wouldn't be able to eventually. And the blow to Paul
Forrester's head -- ordinarily, an injury sustained with that much force
and suddenness would result in a fracture of the skull, yet he
practically got up and walked away from it. Fortunately, the paramedics
got to him in time to prevent him from leaving. A concussed patient is
not exactly well -- he could suddenly get dizzy or pass out, and if Mr.
Forrester had tried to drive himself home, ...
Mulder interrupted her thoughts. "What do you think of the
initial medical report?"
"I'm not sure. I think it's rather peculiar that this man was
shoved downward onto a brass ball with considerable force, and he only
received a concussion. I expected a fractured skull, at least."
"Maybe he caught himself on the way down."
"Maybe, but there's no mention of that in his police statement."
Scully flipped through to the witness statement Mr. Forrester had signed
regarding the shooting. "According to this, he was 'so psychically
overwhelmed' that he couldn't even think straight, let alone react to the
situation."
Scully sensed that Mulder's wheels were spinning regarding the
last sentence. "Mulder, this guy's so famous, even I have heard of him.
He's almost on a level with Uri Geller and Peter Harkos, at least in the
psychic community." Mulder glanced over at her again, clearly surprised
at her knowledge of such an "illogical" area. "But there is nothing in
Paul Forrester's history that suggests an escalation of psychic
abilities. Since age sixteen, he himself admits no further
developments. So this time, you tell me -- what caused those windows to
break, and why wasn't Mr. Forrester more severely damaged?"
Mulder paused, slowly looked over at Scully, and fixed her with
his best "Are you ready for this?" look. Then, just when he seemed about
to speak, he merely shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, and
turned back to the road. Scully just smiled.
He had gotten her again.

* * *

At Grand Rapids' Regional Medical Center, Mulder and Scully
flashed their badges to the clerk at the front desk. After a brief
introduction, they were informed that Paul Forrester was in Room 423.
Mulder thanked the clerk and turned away, but Scully saw something more
in his face.
"What is it?" she asked him. Mulder stopped and turned around.
The clerk looked uncomfortable. "Well, it's just that since he
got here, weird things have been going on. I was on duty when they
brought him in, and when he went past the desk, ... he said, 'It's just a
rash, Tim.' Clear as a bell. He knew my name." Tim paused for a
moment. "He also knew what I was worried about. I have a ... rash.
It's embarassing, and I wasn't sure at the time _what_ it was, but after
he talked to me, I had one of the residents check it out. Sure enough,
it was a rash. But nobody knew about it, except me."

* * *

As they walked down the hallway to Room 423, they could see the
door was open. Mulder was about to knock on the open door as they reached

the room when a voice said, "Yes, Fox, you may come in." Mulder looked at

Scully, the question still frozen in his half-opened mouth. He closed it,

and peered around the frame of the door.
In the bed, a man lay with watchful eyes. He stared at Mulder as
though he could see into his soul. Mulder supposed in a sense, he
could. Before he could say anything, the man in the bed spoke again.
"Please, come in, and bring that pretty partner of yours in here,
too." Scully entered the room behind Mulder, greeted with, "Good
afternoon, Dana. Thank you both for coming to see me. I'm Paul
Forrester, and if I startled you, I'm sorry. I'd shake your hands, but
I'm extremely sensitive right now. It seems to be expanding."
Mulder lept in. "What seems to be expanding, Mr. Forrester?"
Forrester looked at them quizzically. "My ability, or weren't
you aware of my limits before today?" His gaze intensified for a second,
then he said, "You were aware. You just wanted me to say it. Score one
for you. And please call me Paul. I prefer the familiar rather than the
formal."
Mulder said, "So I noticed."
Paul looked at him for a moment, then said, "You don't like me
using your first name, do you? It's reserved for your family only, eh?
Alright. Do you mind if I call you 'Mulder'?"
Scully noticed that Mulder seemed both amused and annoyed by this
display. She heard him say, "That's fine." She looked back at the man
in bed, and studied him for the first time.
He had a rather small bandage on his head, barely larger than a
band-aid. There was no noticeable bruise on his head, which was
remarkable to say the least. He seemed more lucid than all the other
head-wound injuries she'd ever seen, and considering it was only seventeen

hours after the event, he obviously had amazing recuperative powers.
"Of course," Paul said to her, "my recuperative powers weren't
always this strong. It used to take me a week to heal from a paper cut.
But now, everything has changed. Everything." Scully gave him a look
that said she really didn't like having her mind read.
Mulder spoke up. "Don't take this the wrong way, but we're used to
asking the questions before we hear the answers. Please extend us the
courtesy of conversing. Now, in spoken English, what happened to you?"
"Kind of touchy, aren't you? Well, at least you've got the guts
to tell me to my face. Everyone else around here thinks I'm becoming a
monster. There are twenty-seven people talking about me right now, as we
speak. I guess it's to be expected, but ... I don't feel all _that_
different, I don't look any different, and I can't really help that I'm
a psychic sponge now.
"Anyway, you asked me what happened. I'm not all that sure.
You've read the police statement, and that about covers it. But I've
been thinking about it for a few hours now -- they won't let me leave,
even though I'm healed -- and I'm starting to think a combination of
events was at work. First, I'd been exerting my abilities all day, which
wears me out. Second, I was kind of hungry, but I'm not sure that had
any effect. Third, there was a gigantic wave of panic and fear that
swept over me. From the crowd, not me." He saw Scully's questioning
look.
"I was scared, and sort of panicked, but not especially from the
gunshot. I felt trapped, and closed in, and all the other minds sort of
drowned me for a few seconds. THEN the gun went off, and I totally lost
control of my senses. The guy behind me must have pushed me -- at least
the witnesses say that's what happened -- but I have no memory of it.
"I do remember my head hitting that damn ball. God, it hurt. So
much so that I forgot about the other minds for an instant, and it felt
like pain just exploded from my head. Then, the next thing I knew, the
paramedics were telling me not to move, and that was twenty minutes
later."
Scully asked him, "Do you have any idea why you didn't shatter
your skull in the fall? Most people would have died."
Paul looked at her for a second before answering. "That's what
my doctor said before he took the X-rays. Afterward, he showed them to
me. I don't have them here, but you might want to see them, if you're
interested. Go find Dr. Reiss -- he'll tell you all about 'em." There
was a peculiar, mischievious smile on his face that Scully did not
altogether trust.
Mulder said, "Thank you. We will. Come on, Scully." He began
to leave.
Scully maintained eye contact with Paul for a moment longer,
until he said, *George Hale.* Only she hadn't heard any words.
Scully's eyes widened, and she hurried out of the room to catch
up to Mulder.

* * *

Dr. Reiss was a short, gray-haired man in his late fifties who
moved surely and quickly, like he knew exactly what to do at all times.
He motioned for the agents to sit, and they did, taking obvious pleasure
in the comfort the leather-bound chairs provided.
Scully had provided most of the introductory pleasantries, as one
doctor to another. She had expressed their interest in Paul Forrester's
wound, and in his recovery. Dr. Reiss became a little nervous when asked
about the X-rays.
"I must admit," he said, getting up to retrieve the file, "I've
never seen anything like this in my twenty-seven years as a neurologist.
And I've seen a lot." He fixed Scully with a stare. "And I assume you
have, too."
"You could say that," Scully confessed.
Dr. Reiss brought out the file marked Forrester, Paul, and set it
on his desk. Without sitting, he opened the file, rifled through the
papers, and brought out the X-rays. He jammed them into the top of the
display panel on the wall. Flicking it on, the light illuminated the
prints, giving them a clear picture of the workings of Paul's head.
"As you can see in this frontal picture, there is a spot just
above the occipital ridge, indicative of a healed fracture. This was
taken almost as soon as he was brought in, and no," he said, cutting off
Scully's question before she could speak, "it's not a previous injury.
Paul Forrester has lived here all his life, and I've checked with his
personal physician. He's never even had a broken bone until now.
"I say that because in THIS picture," he said, pointing to the
X-ray in profile, "you can make out two minute splinters in the frontal
cortex. Judging from their position and angle, I have to say they were
caused by the impact yesterday afternoon."
With some alarm, Mulder asked, "There are splinters of bone in his
brain?"
Dr. Reiss looked at him calmly. "Oh, yes. This, I've seen
before. What troubles me is the rate of his recovery. That sort of
thing is supposedly impossible."
Scully asked him what he meant by that.
"Well," he said, "usually, the fragments are first extracted
during surgery, which Mr. Forrester has refused outright -- he's afraid
he'll lose _all_ his abilities, not just those that showed up yesterday.
Also, there are generally 'holes' in a patient's memory, certain ideas
and items which he just can't seem to recall, although he knows he once
knew them."
Mulder said, "Sounds like a Stephen King novel."
Dr. Reiss grinned. "That's exactly what my nurse said. She read
_The Dead Zone_, and said it was just like Mr. Forrester's case, if a
little toned-down."
Scully looked away from the X-rays. "Toned-down? What do you mean?"
"Well, in the book, the main character got his head smashed in a
car accident, and afterward, received psychic images from touching people
or objects. But, as you've seen, our Mr. Forrester need not touch a
thing. He told me this morning that it's like there's a cocktail party
all around him, and all he has to do is listen for a particular 'voice'
to be able to read someone's mind."
Mulder asked him, "When will he be released?"
"I'd really prefer to keep him here another twenty-four hours,
but since he shows absolutely no signs of trauma, I'll release him right
after you've asked all your questions."
"Has he seemed violent or disturbed while he's been here?" Scully asked.
"Not at all. He's never even rung for a nurse. Except for the
refusal of surgery, he's been a model patient.
At a look from Scully, Mulder thanked the doctor for his time, and they
left the hospital.

* * *

Paul Forrester smiled to himself. A model patient, perhaps, but
not exactly a normal patient.
He looked to his right, at the empty cup on the bedside table.
He closed his eyes, relaxed his body, and imagined the cup sliding across
the surface of the table. When he heard it rasp on the wood, he opened
his
eyes, and the cup stopped moving. He frowned.
Then, with his eyes open, he _pushed_ at the cup with his mind.
Something inside his head seemed to flex, and the cup flew off the table
and clattered onto the floor.
A very large, satisfied smile slowly spread across Paul's face.

* * *

Ninety minutes later, Mulder was once again driving the two of
them down the streets of Grand Rapids. They were following the taxi that
carried Paul Forrester from the hospital to his home. Mulder was not
being as cautious as usual about tailing someone, and Scully knew why.
Paul knew they were back here; how could he not?
She broke the silence. "Mulder, I have to tell you something."
He looked over at her, judged that she was dead serious, and
asked her what it was.
"Back in the hospital, just as you left the room, I asked Paul a
question, and he answered it correctly. But the question was something
only you and I know, and I didn't say a word the whole time. He really
can hear and discern thoughts, Mulder."
"I'm more than surprised to hear _you_ saying this, Scully,"
Mulder answered. "Isn't this a little far-fetched for you?"
"Actually, ever since I was a child, I've been fascinated with
the power of the human mind. There is so much we don't yet know about
how it works, what it can do, why it does some of the things it does.
So, I've never been able to convince myself that psychic powers were
impossible. But until today, I never had the chance to see for myself if
such a thing could be.
"I asked him, in my mind, which pseudonym you chose for the trip
to Arecibo. Let's face it, Mulder -- you and I are the only two people
on the planet with that knowledge. But he looked at me with those --
pardon the term -- spooky eyes, and I could feel him searching my mind
for the answer. Not more than two seconds later, he answered me, and not
with his voice. He was in my mind, and he knew, Mulder."
Mulder braked the car as the taxi turned left down a residential
street. Still following, he said, "I guess I'm just harder to read,
then."
Scully looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"Come on, Scully; did you honestly think I was not going to avail
myself of the opportunity? I also sent him a message: 'I want to
believe.'"
Scully had to admit, no one who hadn't seen Mulder's office would
know that one. "The poster on your office wall?"
Mulder nodded. "He didn't get it. Either he couldn't receive
it, or he ignored it."
"But he knew your first name. Before he ever saw you. How could
he not get an intentional message?"
The taxi pulled over to the curb in front of a one-story white
house. Mulder said, "I don't know, but maybe we'll get another shot."
He pulled the car over, behind the parked cab. Paul Forrester was
getting out of the back seat. Mulder killed the ignition, and they both
got out in time to hear Paul say, "Keep the change, you need it."
He watched the cab pull away, and without turning around, said,
"Hello, Dana. Hello, Mulder. Won't you come in?"

* * *

The living room was the antithesis of the pretty outside of the
house. The floor was covered with a dark red carpet that looked very much
like a mat of blood. The walls and ceiling were painted black, and
the lamps all had additional covering on the shades. The chairs were
all darkly colored, either burgundy, navy or black, and the couch was
a deep, rich green. Scully really began to wonder if coming in was such
a good idea after all.
"Oh, don't worry about the decor," Paul said to her. "I'm not
dangerous, and I certainly am not insane. I just like to be surrounded
by dark colors. It soothes my mind, and actually help me to filter out
the background noise sometimes."
"The other minds you hear?" Mulder asked.
*Yes*, came the reply, *and the poster reads, "I want to believe."*
A horrible crawling itch settled inside Mulder's head, sending shivers
from his scalp to his waist. His eyes flashed, and he pointed a finger at

Paul. "Don't do that again. If you're going to converse with me, do it
with spoken words."
He saw Scully staring at him, and said, "It appears Mr. Forrester
_was_ ignoring my message at the hospital, and just now responded to
it." He was calming down a bit, but he was surprised how upsetting an
experience telepathy was.
Paul said, "Forgive me, Agent Mulder. I had no idea you would
react like that. Every so often I run into someone who feels like his
brain is being tickled whenever I connect with him. I guess you're just
one of those people. I really am sorry -- there's just no way to tell
before it happens, and since my accident, I'm sure it's more intense an
experience for you. Please accept my apologies. I won't connect with you

that way again."
Mulder still appeared somewhat angry about it, though. "I'd
appreciate it if you would not connect with me in any way except
verbally."
"It's not that easy, Mulder. Please have a seat." Mulder and
Scully sat on the couch, and Paul settled into the burgundy chair. "If I
could just shut it off, I would -- everyone I run into get tired of it,
and I don't have any friends outside the psychic community. They're the
only ones who know what it's like, and only a few of them, at that. For
every fifty self-proclaimed 'psychics' I meet, maybe one is genuine.
"Did you know I once met Uri Geller? I actually shook his hand,
and for a second, both of us got lost in the other. We didn't mean to;
it's not like we're always looking to raid someone's mind. It was
totally uncontrollable for the first few seconds. I actually felt my
heartbeat snychronize with his own. Until now, he was the best psychic
experience of my life."

Scully said, "Paul, you should still be in the hospital, but you
healed yourself. Dr. Reiss wanted to perform surgery on you, to remove
the
splinters of bone imbedded in your frontal lobe -- you refused. Quite
frankly, you should be dead right now, but you're not. I think you've
surpassed Uri Geller. Can you remember anything about the time
immediately following the accident?"
Paul closed his eyes and breathed slowly. For thirty seconds, no
one said a word. Then, just as Scully was about to ask again, he said,
"Yes. My head hurt. Above my right eye. I wanted it to stop." He
opened his eyes. "And it did. Seemed to take forever, but it couldn't
have been more than twenty minutes, could it? I was wide awake when the
paramedics arrived."
Mulder said, "You scared the desk clerk at the hospital pretty
good."
"Yeah, I know. I couldn't help it -- in my head, he was
screaming about his penis." Scully smiled, imagining a man standing up
and just screaming about his genitals. What an image. "And I was
hyper-sensitive to it. I didn't that going on any longer than it had to."
Scully said, "I can understand that."
"Not really, you can't. It's not like you can just plug your ears.
I don't know how to shut people out. I never have, and I hope I learn
soon.
At the rate I'm going, in a few days, everybody in the world is going to
be
screaming in my head about every thought they have. If that happens,
I'll either kill myself or go insane.
"I think I would prefer the former."

* * *

They had asked if they could return tomorrow to see how he was
doing, and now Mulder was driving them to the mall, to see what had
happened.
"What do you think it's like, endlessly hearing voices in your head?"
Mulder answered Scully with, "Poison ivy on your brain." He still
felt invaded, and he kept getting shivers up his spine. Scully was
studying
him closely, and finally decided to say something about it.
"That really bothered you, didn't it? I've never seen you react
like this to anything. Are you okay, Mulder?"
"I'm fine, Scully." And he was silent.
Scully looked back at the street ahead of them, and could make
out the mall about a half-mile away.
"No, I'm not," Mulder admitted. "I'm sorry, Scully. I'm just
having a hard time shaking this feeling." He glanced over at her. "I'll
be alright. Would you do me a favor, though."
"Sure, what is it?"
As he turned into the mall parking lot, he leaned his head in
Scully's direction. "Would you mind scratching my brain?"

* * *

Every shopkeeper around the "blast zone" had the same story --
there was a brilliant flash a light, and all the windows shattered at the
same time. Everyone heard the gunshot well in advance of the flash, but
didn't have any other ideas about what caused it. Most decided not to
worry about it, but Mulder and Scully spoke to several employees who said
they had really disturbing dreams last night. One woman told Mulder she
had the same dream four times; she was soaring through the sky when
suddenly she fell from a terrible height onto the ground. But when she
hit, she burst into flames, and lay there on the ground, broken and
burning.
Mulder didn't think she'd be getting any decent sleep anytime soon.

* * *

They checked into the motel at 8:46, got two singles, and went to
their separate rooms. Scully wanted to enter her notes into her laptop,
and Mulder just wanted to take a shower. He still felt ... itchy was the
only term for it. And he didn't want to mention it to Scully yet, but he
thought it was a little worse now than it was that afternoon.
He took a very long, very hot shower, repeatedly scrubbing his
head and back as best he could. The itch simply would not go away.
Finally, he jammed the nozzle down, stepped out of the shower, and
toweled off. He was really becoming agitated now, and the shivers
continually raced up and down his spine. He wondered if maybe he was
ill, but he knew Paul Forrester was at the root of this.
He hurriedly put on his sweat suit, and went next door to
Scully's room. She opened the door, and said, "Mulder, what's wrong?"
"I can't shake this shiver, Scully. My head and back feel itchy
inside. It's not very pleasant, to say the least."
Scully brought him in, sat him on the bed, and went to get her
medical bag. Mulder noticed the laptop was on, its screen illuminating
the tabletop. He reached out to see what Scully had written, when he
realized he couldn't steady his hand.
Alarmed, he said, "Scully, I can't stop my hand from shaking."
Scully came back with the bag and looked at his outstretched
arm. Sure enough, from the elbow forward his arm was quivering, and the
hand was shaking and twitching spasmodically. She brought out a vial and
a syringe.
"I'm going to give you a muscle relaxant. Not enough to knock
you out, but enough to make you stop moving." She raised the sleeve on
his other arm and injected the needle.
When she withdrew the syringe, Mulder was looking at her with
an expression she'd never seen of his face before. It looked so strange,
it took a few moments for her to identify it.
Fear. Mulder was scared, and that scared her, as well.

* * *

She sat with him for some time, talking him down from his
unsettled state. It really unnerved her to see him fall apart like that;
the experience with Paul must have been much worse than Mulder let on.
He was usually so controlled and confident, and seeing that fear in his
eyes bothered her greatly.
Finally, he began to settle down, as the drug took effect. She
was certain the dosage was insufficient to make him sleep, but he went to
sleep anyway. He just dozed off, sitting slumped over at the foot of the
bed. Scully didn't have the heart to wake him up, so she rocked him back
onto the mattress, took off his shoes, and turned off the light. She sat
down at her computer, looking at him once more to make sure he was
alright, then resumed entering her notes.

* * *

someone calling to him

someone far off, getting closer

someone familiar

father approaching from the swirling mist surrounding him

"Fox. Fox!" louder and louder "Fox!!"

go away, he thinks. just leave me alone. i can't see you now.

"Fox, you don't have a choice. I'm a part of you, and you can't shut me
out."

fox looks up into his father's face. he sees without surprise that it is
the face of paul forrester. he also sees from paul's perspective that
fox is a child, and his father's body is growing larger and larger. the
voice booms again, but paul's lips don't move.

"I can't stop this, Fox. It's outgrowing me, and I don't have the power
to separate us. I'm afraid you're coming along for the ride." enormous
hands grab fox's arms.

no, i'm not. let go of me. i won't let you take me

he hears his voice dwindle as the mist envelopes them

darkness

* * *

Mulder's eyes snapped open to blinding light, and for several
seconds he could not remember where he was. Then, he realized that
Scully was holding his arms, shaking him to wake him up. Squinting, he
made out her features, and seeing the worry on her face, tried to relax
and compose himself.
"Are you okay, Mulder?" Scully asked. "You really had me
worried. I was about ready to give you a stimulant."
"I'm fine, just dreaming. Skinner, a tutu, one of those Twister
games laid out on his office floor -- I'd rather not discuss it." He
noticed that she wasn't smiling, and her brow was still furrowed in
alarm. "What time is it?"
She looked at her watch. "It's 11:21. Mulder, you kept yelling,
'I won't let you take me'. I shook you for two full minutes before you
quieted
down and woke up. Never mind the fact that I gave you a very light dose
of
muscle relaxant, and you managed to sleep in the same position for ten
hours.
Are you sure you feel alright?"
Mulder fought the conflict in his mind -- he didn't want her
worrying about him, he didn't want to be a burden, and he certainly did
not want to admit to mental instability. But on the other hand, she was
his partner. He would want her to tell him if something were wrong.
Besides, she was the one person he could trust in the entire world to
always be there if he needed her. She was his only friend. His conflict
subsided.
"I had a very real, very bad nightmare. Paul Forrester came to
me as my father, grabbed me, and told me he couldn't stop what was
happening to him. He said he's part of me now, and like it or not, I was
coming along for the ride." Mulder looked into Scully's eyes with
genuine fear. "I remember I was just a boy, and he kept growing and
growing, and he kept speaking louder and louder. But his lips never
moved. He was thinking at me, harder and harder, and I couldn't block
it. I think if you hadn't awakened me when you did, I would have gone
insane."
Scully raised her eyebrows at this last. She did not like the
way this assignment was shaping up. First, Mulder had an "allergic"
reaction to Paul's psychic voice. Then he'd been afraid -- literally
afraid -- of his trembling body last night. Now, this dream that clearly
tapped into his baser emotions. And, knowing psychology the way Mulder
did, she didn't have to interpret his dream for him.
"Mulder, this is getting serious. I know you're not afraid to
put your life on the line for a case, but I've seen things in you in the
past day that I've never seen before. You're jittery, you're paranoid --
more so than normal." He smiled faintly. "And I've seen fear in your
eyes. Obviously, to you, your mind is more sacrosanct than your body."
She paused. "If you want to abandon this case, I understand."
Instantly, he shook his head. "No, Scully, that won't help."
"Mulder, I don't think you can continue with the investigation,
the way you've been spiraling. I think you need to get away from here."
Mulder's eyes speared her own. "You don't understand. Distance
will not make a difference. Mr. Forrester is getting stronger every
second, and I can't escape his mind. Even if I bought a summer home on
Pluto, it wouldn't help.
"He's in my head, Scully. I can't get away from him. I'm going to
get rid of him, or lose my mind trying. Either way, this case is going
to end here."
Though she didn't really accept that answer, Scully could see
Mulder would not budge on this issue. She watched him get up off the bed
and leave the room.

* * *

Scully parked their car beside the curb at Paul Forrester's
house. Mulder clearly did not like being here, and she wondered again
what must be going on inside his mind. His whole body was tense, his
face was pinched, and he was not in the least bit jovial on the way over
here. Maybe driving the car himself would have helped, but neither of
them thought that his "affliction" was controllable, and the image of
Mulder seizing and wrapping the car around a telephone pole was
sufficient to put Scully behind the wheel.
They got out silently, and walked up to the door. Scully rang
the doorbell, but no one answered it. She knocked. Also no response.
She was turning to leave when Mulder said, "He's in there. He just
doesn't want to see us right now."
She looked at him, and her breath caught. His pupils had dilated
fully, and the blackness of his eyes scared her. She'd never seen
anyone's eyes do that under any circumstances -- there were only two
shades in his eyes, white and black. None of the usual blue.
His face was slack, and he spoke in a monotone. He seemed
to be in some sort of trance. Then, suddenly, he shook himself, and the
color came back into his eyes. He looked at her, dumbfounded, and said,
"I guess it's not all one-way. I think this connection may not be as
hopeless as it seemed." With that, he pounded on the door with his fist,
and it was answered immediately.
Paul stood there, haggard and drawn. He looked ten years older
than when they'd seen him the day before. His hair looked limp, and at
the roots Scully noticed a tinge of gray. Mulder saw that his eyes were
extremely bloodshot, and the skin on his face seemed drier than before.
"You think you had a bad night. Walk a _yard_ in my shoes. Come
in, before you break my door."

* * *

Once inside the darkened living room, Mulder relaxed slightly.
He supposed Paul was right -- it did make a difference being in here.
Even from three feet away, Mulder felt calmer than he had in the last
eighteen hours.
"Well," Paul said, "I think I know why we're stuck to each
other."
Mulder fixed him with a glare. "And why is that?"
"My senses have improved to the point that I can not only read
your mind, but see how it works. You fell out of a tree when you were
eight years old, didn't you?" Mulder nodded. "Well, when you fell, you
hit your head. Not hard enough to knock you out, but hard enough to
leave an impression on your brain. Care to guess where, Dana?"
Scully looked at Paul for a couple of seconds, then said, "The
frontal lobe, above the occipital ridge."
"Very good. I like her," he said to Mulder.
Mulder went to sit down on the couch. "You mean to tell me that
because we share an injury, I can't get you out of my head? My fall
occurred decades before yours. How could they be connected?"
Paul sat in his chair. "They weren't before I sent to you. I
didn't know anything about your injury, and I certainly didn't know you'd
stick to me like this. I don't particularly enjoy this ride, either, you
know."
Scully spoke up. "How can you separate from each other? Neither
of you can go on like this, and if your abilities continue to grow,
he may be overwhelmed."
Paul was nonplussed. "I don't know. I don't even know how, I
don't even know IF. Right now, I'm inclined to believe the only way we'd
separate is if one of us died." Silence in the room. "Of course, I'm
not suggesting that course of action, nor am I saying it would work."
"What do you mean?" Mulder asked.
"Well, it's like we're both riding in the same car. We're going
eighty miles an hour, and we're not wearing seat belts. And say we don't
know if there are air bags in the car. What if we crash head-on into
something? If one dies, what are the chances the other will survive?"
Mulder looked at Scully with sad resignation, and Scully could do
nothing but return the gaze.
Paul said, "We'll just have to wait and see."

* * *

Since the room had a calming effect on Mulder, they all agreed to
stay in the house until something better came along. He was beginning to
resemble Paul Forrester -- drawn and thin, bloodshot eyes, looked like he
hadn't slept in years. And though she wished it wouldn't happen, it
did -- the shivers came back.
Mulder looked so bad, Scully got up to get him a blanket and a
glass of water. As she walked into a darkened hall, she heard something
moving toward her. In one swift move, her gun was in her hands, and she
managed to flip on the light switch. The object dropped to the floor
with a -flump-. It was a blanket.
Still aiming her gun at the floor, she toed the blanket to see if
anything was inside. Nothing was. She picked it up, and walked back
into the living room. Mulder was drinking a glass of water, and Paul
said to her, "I could've gotten it."

* * *

Paul told them he was going to go take a nap, and he left the
room. Scully sat by Mulder, who was shivering uncontrollably. His eyes
were half-open, and she could hear his teeth chattering. She asked him
how he was, and he responded with a small smile. A very small smile. It
broke her heart to see it, so she did something she never thought she
would. She put her arm around Mulder's shoulder, and rocked him back and
forth, trying to soothe him. At first, Mulder seemed uncomfortable, but
he soon relaxed, and though the shivers didn't disappear, they at least
lessened. He rested his head on her shoulder, and they sat that way for
a little while.
At some point, Mulder drifted off to sleep. Scully heard his
breathing deepen, and she detected a small amount of snoring on his
part. She smiled to herself as she rocked him into a more reclined
position. She got up, grabbed her purse, and went to go find the
bathroom.
After relieving herself, she washed her hands. Looking into the
mirror, she was not too pleased with her appearance right now. Her face
looked washed out, and the bags under her eyes were showing quite a bit.
She ran her fingers over the dark patches and thought to herself how much
this job took out of her. She ran cold water over her hands and splashed
her face. She dried her face, and looked back in the mirror to begin
applying make-up. There was no longer any need. The bags were gone, her
face looked flawless, and she even seened to have lost a few years of age.

Her eyes widened -- she looked five years younger. She leaned in closer,
and saw movement in the mirror.
She spun around to an empty room. There was nothing out of
place, and the door was still locked. She turned back around and where
her own reflection should have been, Paul Forrester was there. She
gasped in horror, recoiling from the shock. His image did the same.
Then he laughed, and it was the most hideous, awful laugh she had ever
heard.
"Dana, you look great!" Paul said. As she watched, his hair
turned white, and his eyes became shark's eyes -- much like Mulder's had
been when they knocked on the door.
"Really, I mean it. Listen, I can't do anything about Fox, and
I'm really sorry, but I don't want to stop stretching myself, either.
It's incredible, what I'm becoming."
Scully jammed her fear far down inside her. "And what exactly are
you becoming?"
His answer chilled her to the bone. "God."
He began to glow, and then there was an explosion of light inside
the mirror. Whole galaxies couldn't create that brilliance, and Scully
turned away and slammed her hands over her eyes. She heard a faceless,
many-voiced choir crescendo in horrific dissonance, and she felt sure she
was about to die. Then -- abruptly -- all was quiet.
She slowly removed her hands from her face, and faced the mirror
again. Her own reflection looked back at her, and she saw that she was
her normal self again. She collected herself, then spun around and tore
the door open.
She stormed down the hall to Paul's bedroom, opened the door, and
gasped in alarm. He was sleeping -- his eyes were closed, his breathing
even, and his sheets evenly across his body. What really shocked her was
the fact that he was drifting near the ceiling, five feet above his bed.
She noticed with awe that his hair had turned completely white. She
quietly
closed the door and hurried back to Mulder.

* * *

"Dammit, Mulder, wake up!" she hissed at him, shaking him
forcefully. She had been doing so for over a minute now, and she was
terrified by her experience in the bathroom. But Mulder wouldn't budge.
His body had stopped shivering, but he was completely unconscious.
"We're getting out of here." She grabbed his right arm, leaned
his body onto her back, and dragged him off the couch. God, he was
heavier than he looked. She slowly made her way across the living room,
but he was getting heavier by the second. Realization sank in. Paul
wasn't going to let Mulder leave. That was why he wouldn't wake up.
That was the reason he weighed so much. Feeling her knees strain, Scully
lowered Mulder to the floor. He lay there, still asleep.
She unholstered her gun and walked back to Paul's bedroom. She
opened the door to a black abyss swimming in front of her face. There
was nothing in that blackness; it was an absolute void. Scully felt like
she might pass out if she had to go through much more of today's events.
She backed against the wall and screwed her eyes shut. She silently
counted to three, then opened her eyes. The blackness was still there.
Where the hallway ended, so did everything else. She could see the
door in there, but all signs of Paul Forrester's bedroom were gone.
Rational curiosity calmed her down, and she put her hand out to
investigate this void. She reached beyond the frame of the door,
expecting something to pull her through. Nothing. Holding the jamb for
support, she leaned over and grabbed the knob, pulling the door shut.
She waited a couple of seconds, then re-opened the door.
Void.
How odd.
Scully reached into her pants pocket and pulled out a nickel.
She tossed it into the nothingness, and it vanished from view ... and then
she heard it land on something solid.
That's what she wanted to know. She lunged forward into the
void, felt the darkness engulf her, and then she was in Paul's bedroom.
He was sitting on the bed, watching her. She brought herself to
a stop, and he began to clap his hands. She looked behind her, and she
could see the hallway, the door, and the nickel at her feet. It had all
been in her mind. With anger rising inside her, she faced Paul.
"Well done, Dana! Well done, indeed!" He got to his feet, and
his eyes were no longer white corneas with black pupils -- they were
solid black. As black as the void had been. Her anger was joined with
fright.
She reached for her gun, but it wouldn't come out of its
holster. It was totally immobile. She looked down at it to see what was
holding it in place, and heard Paul say, "Come, come, I can't have you
shooting at me. Guns can be very dangerous." With that, the pistol flew
out of Scully's holster, and into Paul's outstretched hand.
Without a trace of a smile, he said, "You never know who might
get hurt."
Scully's eyes bored into him. "Just let me take my partner away
from here. Let him go."
"I told you, I can't do ..."
"Yes, you can," she said, cutting him off. He clearly didn't
appreciate it. "You seem to be able to do whatever you want. Just
separate from him. Please."
Paul considered it for a long time. Scully anxiously waited for
him to answer her. He finally said, "No. I've grown accustomed to that
face. And yours. Come closer, girlie-girl." Terror surged through
Scully's body at the mention of Donnie Pfaster's repulsive nickname.
From the living room, she heard Mulder call her name. Scully
backed out of the bedroom, her eyes still fixed on the holes in Paul's
head. She ran down the hall to the living room, and saw Mulder on the
wall. He was up there as if gravity had forgotten about him for a
while. He appeared quite lucid. She had time to say "Oh my God", and
then
Paul was in the room with them.
"You know, I've seen psychics from all over the world, and not
one of them could do this." And with that, Mulder's body flew across the
room, slamming face-first into the opposite wall and staying there. A
terrific grunt was forced out of Mulder. "Or this." Mulder flew back to
his original spot, hitting his head. Scully could see the blood trickling

out of his broken nose. "And especially not this." Mulder began to
scream in anguish.
Scully found herself enveloped in hatred for this thing beside
her. She bared her teeth, let out a yell, and grabbed for Paul's
throat. Surprisingly, she got hold of it, and her hands tightened,
crushing Paul's windpipe.
Mulder stopped screaming and fell to the floor. Paul fell to the
floor as well, thrashing and trying to knock Scully off of him. Scully's
rage completely obliterated rational thought, and by touching him, she
was forcing all of her fear and hate into his mind. Her only thought was
"Die, die, die!"
Paul couldn't shake her. She was blinding him with his own
energy, and it was cycling like feedback. He couldn't see or hear, and
his brain couldn't focus on anything but survival. He began to fear for
his life.
Unfortunately, Scully couldn't maintain her level of anger. She
realized what she was doing, and loosened her grip. The instant she did,
she was flung across the room. She landed on the floor, and Paul walked
over to her. He seemed about twelve feet tall. Scully saw the ring of

bruises on his neck heal with a small glow, and then Paul fixed her with
his mind, pinning her to the ground like a bug on display.
"That was a good try, girlie-girl. But now you must be
punished. And I'm afraid this is going to hurt you a lot more than it's
going to hurt me." Scully felt her legs forced apart. She fought it,
but there was nothing she could do. Paul knelt down on the floor,
between her legs, and closed his eyes. Scully immediately felt something
huge invade her, violate her mind and body. She whimpered pitifully, and
then the invasion _amplified_, and she screamed in panic and agony. It
felt as though she were been torn in two, from the inside out.
Suddenly, two explosions blasted through the room, and the
invasion was gone. So was Paul. Scully looked around, and saw he was
laying on the floor, bleeding from the chest and neck. Mulder stood
across the room, gun still smoking. He looked shaken, but Scully saw the
determination in his eyes. She also saw that the fear was gone.
Paul lifted his head and looked at Mulder. Mulder would not
lower his gun -- it was aimed squarely at Paul Forrester's head, and from
this distance, he would not miss. Scully found herself able to sit up,
and she looked at Paul as he mouthed his farewell: See you later.
A wind kicked up in the living room, and items blew all around
their heads. Mulder still held the gun ready, his finger only a hair
away from firing. A glow began to form in the holes in Paul's body -- as
Scully and Mulder watched, they closed and healed. The glow spread
across his body, and began to intensify. Reminded of her incident in the
bathroom, Scully immediately turned her head away; Mulder stood rock
steady, only squinting his eyes.
Paul brightened and brightened. Scully could see the brilliance
through her closed eyes. Then a noise began to form. It was a low roar
at first, then swelled to deafening levels. Papers flew about their
bodies, and the windows all exploded simultaneously. Mulder finally
couldn't stand the light and noise anymore, so he turned away from Paul
just in time.
If either of them had looked at Paul's departure, it
would have killed them. The brilliance that had held its form this long
suddenly ruptured in a supernova. A wave of force blew out from Paul's
body, then rushed back in the ensuing vacuum. Mulder and Scully were
knocked over by its force, and the intensity of the light blistered their
skin and scorched the carpet where he had been an instant before. When
they opened their eyes, Paul Forrester was gone.
Mulder put his gun away and went to Scully. "Are you okay?"
Scully felt pretty bad, so she said, "Fine. You?"
"Peachy. He's gone, Scully." She got the sense he wasn't just
talking about his physical presence. "He's gone."

* * *

They informed the local authorities that Paul Forrester had left
town, and that he would most likely not return. Their story was not
untrue.
Mulder and Scully both felt relieved that they didn't have to explain this

to Paul's parents -- they had both died four years before. There was no
further investigation of the matter.

* * *

For once, Scully's report closely resembled Mulder's. This
disturbed Assistant Director Skinner. He so noted his opinion to his
superiors.

* * *

Two weeks later, Scully was writing a report of her most recent
autopsy. Twenty-six year old black male, 170 cm. tall, killed by a
rupture in his heart. She noted in her records that although there was
no entry wound, it looked as though the left ventricle had been torn from
the outside. She had no explanation for the cause.
Her phone rang. She was waiting for it -- Mulder called her at
least four times a day when she was doing an autopsy and he wasn't
present. She picked up the phone and said, "This is Agent Scully."
There was no sound on the other end, although Scully could tell
the line was open. She said, "Hello?"
A voice came over the line that stopped her heart for a second.
"I want to believe, Dana." Then the line was broken.
Scully looked at the receiver for a moment, then gently lowered
it onto the cradle. It rang instantly, scaring her so badly that she lat
out a yelp. She answered the phone angrily with, "What do you want?"
"Well, hello to you to, Scully. Found anything new?" It was Mulder.
"Mulder?" she said, still scared.
The concern in his voice was unmistakable. "Yeah, it's me, Scully.
What's wrong?"
"We have to talk, Mulder. Right now."

THE END